


That You May Also Be Where I Am

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John started out as a free man, and he’s not having an easy time coming around to being a proper slave. On the other hand, Sherlock’s not exactly a model master, so perhaps the two of them will find a way to coexist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, dub-con (plus Stockholm Syndrome-y justification of such), humiliation, unhealthy D/s dynamics, rough sex, irresponsible use of firearms  
>  **Notes:** In the same universe as [My Master’s House Has Many Rooms](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/98015.html). If you haven’t read it, here’s all you need to know: It’s a modern day slave AU. John was a recently acquired slave in Mycroft’s house, and now Sherlock has purchased him for his sole use. Thanks to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for the cheerleading and hand-holding, and [](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/profile)[**blue_eyed_1987**](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/) for Brit-picking and beta-ing.  
> 

_  
The pain lanced through the pleasant buzz of oxycodone, but John didn’t bother to shift on his narrow cot. He knew from days of experience that he couldn’t outrun the pain by moving, so he held his ground. He fixed his eyes on the edge of the shadow cast by a pole against the tent’s canvas wall and promised himself he’d hold perfectly still until the shadow reached the seam in the fabric. Half an hour at most. He could maintain discipline that long._

_“Watson?”_

_“Yes?” He kept his eyes fixed on the shadow. The surgeon here had been nothing but kind to John since he’d woken up; the behaviour was beginning to grate._

_“I’ve conferred with the surgeon in B Company. There’s nothing for it.”_

_“I’m to be invalided.”_

_“They’ll keep you in hospital in Kabul until you’re stable enough to move. The Empire takes care of its own.” When John made no reply, the surgeon took a step forward. “Watson?”_

_“Yes,” he said dully. “Long live the Empire.”_

_“Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”_

_Watson gave up trying to maintain his watch on the shadow’s movement and turned to his fellow doctor. “I need to speak to the commander.”_

_“What for? Is it something I can help with?”_

_John shook his head. It wasn’t something anyone could _help_ with._

_“He’s very busy, Watson. Those bastards that took out Murray and the others, they-- “_

_“It’s about my contract.”  
_  
\--

John had been kneeling on the cold ground, watching Sherlock pace back and forth outside of the window for half an hour, by his best estimate. He had no idea what, exactly, Sherlock was trying to discover, but he’d learned in his first two days as Sherlock’s exclusive property not to interrupt his master with questions. His thigh was starting to throb insistently. When Sherlock had told him to kneel here, he’d done it without protest. The whole morning had been a series of imperious orders whose meaning John couldn’t fathom: kneel here, stand there, back against the wall, kneel again, no _here_ , John, look where I’m pointing. Now Sherlock had dragged them out into the garden, and seemingly forgotten about John while he muttered under his breath about his current theory.

John could feel the misty rain soaking through his shirt. Sherlock, of course, had grabbed his coat and scarf on their way out, but John’s things were in his room, and Sherlock hadn’t mentioned where they were going. At least the rivulets of water trickling down John’s neck under his leather collar provided a distraction from the ache in his shoulder that had arrived with the damp weather.

Sherlock paused under the window casement, tilted his head to the side, squatted down, and pressed his fingers to the stone foundation. He’d done so twice already. John felt quite certain that whatever there was to discover was either already committed to Sherlock’s highly accurate memory, or had no chance of being discovered at all. And that ache in his leg wasn’t getting any better the longer he knelt.

“Getting a bit dampish here,” he called, then tacked on a belated, “Sir.”

“What have I told you about speaking to me when—No.” Sherlock whirled around and stalked over to John, hand out. For a moment, John thought Sherlock meant to hit him. Instead, Sherlock dragged two fingers through John’s fringe, shaking loose drops of water that trickled down his cheeks. “Yes. She changed clothes, but her hair was wet.” Sherlock snatched his phone from his pocket and typed out a brief message. “Mycroft should be able to appease the Chinese ambassador with that.”

“Right, sir. Of course.” John tried to shift his weight to his left side to give his leg a break while he thought how what they were doing out here might be connected to Sino-British relations. He drew a blank. “What should appease the Chinese ambassador?”

“His daughter didn’t sneak away at night to have it off with the enemy while they were visiting. She’s been taking pleasure with her father’s favourite personal slave. An annoyance for him, perhaps, but hardly the pretext for an international incident as the Ambassador threatened.”

“Won’t the slave be punished?”

“Hm? Oh, undoubtedly.” Sherlock looked up from his phone to squint at John. “You have something to say?”

“You’re not curious why the slave went along with this plan?”

“It has no bearing on the outcome of the case.”

“Alright.” John settled back on his heels and waited.

After a moment, Sherlock snapped, “What?”

“It seems strange,” John said, “that a well-cared-for slave would risk her position.”

“A sentimental person might suggest she did it for love.”

“Love.” John frowned at the wet ground under his knees. “Between a slave and a master.”

“I admit it sounds unlikely.” Sherlock’s face scrunched for a moment, but quickly returned to cold neutrality. “You have some theory, I suppose. Some wild speculation totally unsupported by fact. John, what have I told you about data? It’s a grave mistake to— ”

“Someone else knelt here,” John interrupted. “I’ve been staring at the ground for half an hour. Beneath the lilac bush, there, you can see the imprints of knees and feet.”

“Obviously, John. It didn’t take me half an hour of ‘staring at the ground’ to observe that. As I said, the slave was here.”

“Right in a slave’s proper place if her master were standing under the window,” John said.

Sherlock crouched by the tell-tale marks. “Or if she were waiting for her lover.”

“She wouldn’t kneel for her lover,” John said. At Sherlock’s sharp look, he amended his statement. “Well, wouldn’t _have_ to. She might if asked nicely.”

“Why wouldn’t she kneel?”

“If a slave were to break her master’s trust to take up with another, she wouldn’t be acting as a slave,” John said slowly, striving to keep incredulity out of his voice. “She’d meet the lover on equal terms.”

“Equal terms. Really, John. If… Yes. Oh, that’s clever. Oh yes. The ambassador. Sought to catch his daughter. Overheard plans for an assignation, went to intercept. Personal slave sent to watch the window, concealed herself in the bushes. When the daughter heard her father at the door, she sent the lover out of the room via the window. The slave saw him—a man is statistically more likely in this instance—and reported his identity to her master. The lover is clearly a man of some power and influence, or a very wealthy man. In any case, someone whose wrath the ambassador would rather not arouse.”

“You think the daughter is a social climber?”

“Hardly. Look at the shoes she wears. No, it’s far more likely that the lover is someone that the ambassador fears to impugn. He’s hoping that either Mycroft will do his dirty work for him and expose the lover, or that Mycroft will be politically unable to acquiesce with the ambassador’s request, and therefore lose some political capitol. Quite simple.”

John stared at Sherlock for several seconds, as water trickled down the nape of his neck under his collar. “That’s… amazing.”

“Yes?” Sherlock glanced sideways at him.

“You know it is. That was brilliant,” John said. The sheer number of deductions Sherlock had put together to construct an answer dizzied John.

“Yes.” Then Sherlock’s face closed, became sharper somehow. “Sycophancy doesn’t suit you, John.”

“No, I expect it wouldn’t,” John said. “And the next time you’re not brilliant, I’ll be sure to tell you so.”

Sherlock favoured him with a slightly frightening approximation of a smile. He tugged his phone out of his pocket and began typing rapidly.

The fine mist had turned into a steady drizzle. John was starting to shiver. He tried rotating his attention through the sharpest concerns on his body: the ache in his shoulder, the throbbing of his thigh, the grumbling of his empty belly. When he at last noticed the neatly polished shoes on the cobblestones before him, he had no idea how long they’d been there.

“You’re not wearing a coat,” Sherlock said.

“Another brilliant deduction, sir.”

“Come along.” Sherlock rose and swept down the path toward the kitchen gardens.

John pushed himself to his feet, but his leg bucked under him, sending him tumbling onto the cobblestone path. He gritted his teeth and tried again, this time keeping most of his weight on his good leg. When he managed to get himself upright, he saw Sherlock stopped ten yards down the path, watching him with narrowed eyes. John hurried to join him, gritting his teeth against the painful protestations of his leg.

“Your leg still bothers you when you kneel?”

“No,” John ground out. “I’m just uncommonly clumsy as well as stupid.”

“Right.” Sherlock pivoted on his heel and set off again.  
\--

_  
“What’s this?” the first man asked. He had a bushy moustache, perhaps to make up for the hair retreating from his head. He was taller than his comrade, and had a public school air about him. “This here.” He pointed the rucksack slung over John’s back._

_“A rucksack,” John said, feeling as if he were missing something. The day’s journey--an airlift out of Kabul, followed by a van from the base-- had been a long one, made all the more uncomfortable by the MPs who rode on either side of him as if he were some dangerous criminal who might try to escape. Now, leaning heavily on his cane and clutching his bag like a lifeline, he wanted nothing more than to rest. Instead, these two bureaucrats had met John and his escort just inside the door marked “intake,” in a large anteroom that looked unsettling like a doctor’s waiting room. If doctor’s waiting rooms were situated in cavernous warehouses._

_“Rucksack,” the second man chuckled, as if the world itself were amusing. “Give it here.”_

_No army man was a stranger to surprise inspections. In fact, John still wore his uniform, standard desert camouflage, as he was technically still in the Army’s employ until they transferred his ownership here. The clothes felt like armour, and John could almost convince himself that this was just another mission. After bracing himself for the weight change, John swung his pack off his shoulder and held it out to the second man, the short ginger one with eyes too close together._

_The ginger didn’t take it. “Show us,” he said._

_So it was to be games, then, was it? John was in no kind of mood to be toyed with, but then again, he didn’t imagine anyone would be giving much consideration to his mood from now on. Clutching his cane tightly, John got his good knee onto the ground with a painful thump. He untied the top of his pack and pulled it open to expose the neatly packed contents._

_“What’s inside?” Moustache asked._

_“Just my kit,” John said. When the duo didn’t respond, he continued, “My clothes. First aid supplies. A few letters.”_

_“Dump it out,” said Moustache._

_“Here?”_

_The man continued watching him with no change of expression._

_Right then. John upended his bag, sending everything he’d brought with him sliding into an untidy heap: a change of civilian clothes. His underclothes. Trainers. His small medical kit, packed with essentials, and one important surprise. The packet of letters from Harry, most of them filled with nosy questions about his recovery, with pleas for him not to do this, with empty assurances that she would find some other way to pay their family’s debt._

_The ginger prodded at the pile with the top of his brightly-shined shoe. “A slave owns nothing, Watson. Not even himself. Do you understand?”_

_John fixed his eyes on the jumble of objects at his feet. It looked rather pathetic. “Yes, sir.”_

_“The military ones are always easier,” the ginger said to his comrade with a benign smile._

_“Not always.” Moustache walked to the desk and pressed a small button._

_Through the doors at the end of the hall came a rotund man in a drab grey uniform, about John’s age, perhaps, but heavyset, with glasses and thinning hair. He wore a plain metal collar, and kept his eyes downcast._

_“Stamford,” the ginger said. “Take these things to the disposal. There’s nothing here the Empire needs.”_

_The slave nodded, and began gathering John’s belongings, tucking some under his arms and shoving others back in the rucksack._

_John clenched his fists, but said nothing. There wasn’t much there that he couldn’t do without, but he had hoped there for a short time that he could get away with keeping his Sig, cleverly concealed inside his med kit. John pushed himself to his feet and forced himself to stare into middle distance as a stranger carried away the remnants of his old life._

_“Wait a moment,” said Moustache, and the slave paused. “That isn’t everything.” He returned his cool gaze to John. “Your clothes.”_

_John took two even breaths as he looked the man in the eye. Behind him, he could hear the uncomfortable shifting of the two MPs. Probably they were not keen to see a soldier stripped of his status and his freedom. At least John wasn’t the only one not enjoying himself._

_“Was he not clear?” the ginger asked. Amazingly, he managed not to sound facetious. “You’ll need to remove your clothes.”_

_John let his eyes fix in middle distance. This was just another mission, and one he was undertaking so his sister would never have to. The thought calmed him. He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled it gingerly off, one arm at a time. Then his shirt, revealing the dogs tags dangling against his chest and the vivid scar on his shoulder. They’d removed the bandage yesterday at the base hospital, but the attending physician had been adamant that John keep up with physical therapy for the next year at least. At the time, John had diligently noted the exercises the doctor had suggested. Now, however, his expectations were being quite handily re-arranged._

_John bent down, carefully keeping his balance, and laid his cane on the floor so both hands were free to unlace his boots. The other five men in the room stood watching in complete silence. John almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He prised off his boots, then his socks, and dropped them to the side. He straightened up and resumed his focus at middle distance. He’d been a soldier a long time. He would not be intimidated by these bureaucrats, no matter how much control they had over his life._

_John unbuckled his belt, unfastened his trousers, and pushed them down along with his pants. He stepped out of his clothes to stand completely exposed._

_“Go on,” Moustache said to the slave—Stamford, they’d called him._

_Stamford immediately gathered up the rest of John’s things. He hesitated over the cane, until the ginger said, “Take it. Slaves receive medical treatment when the masters allow it, not before, as you know very well, Stamford.”_

_“Yes, sir,” the man muttered. He took the cane, and headed back the way he’d come._

_Moustache turned to the MPs. “Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all.”_

_One of the MPs coughed, then spoke up. “There’s a form to sign.”_

_“Yes, of course.” Moustache strode over to them._

_The ginger walked up to John, very close, and for a wild moment, John thought the man meant to kiss him. Instead, he hooked his fingers under the chain on which John’s dog tags hung, lifted it over John’s head, and gathered it in one hand. Then he, too, stepped past John to address the MPs._

_“You can take these back with you.” The clink of metal changing hands. “Send it to his family, if you wish.”_

_“We only do that when a soldier dies,” the MP said._

_After a pause, the ginger said, “Well, yes.”_

_“Long live the Empire,” Moustache said by way of dismissal._

_“Long live the Empire,” the two MPs muttered._

_“Stamford,” Moustache called. “Take him to processing.”_

_The uniformed slave, returned from disposing of John’s belongings, approached them._

_Moustache was already headed for a door at the opposite end of the cavernous room, but the ginger stayed behind to pat John on the shoulder. “This may seem harsh, young man,” he said. “But it’s kinder to make a clean break. You’ll adjust more easily this way.” Then he, too, took his leave, and John was left standing next to Stamford._

_“You think I’ll adjust?” he asked._

_The man pushed his glasses up his nose and shook his head. “I suppose that’s for you to choose.”  
_  
\--

As John followed Sherlock through the garden door into the kitchens, the first thing he heard was Mrs. Hudson’s scolding.

“Master Sherlock, we’ve just got the floors cleaned. I know you weren’t born in a barn, so why— “

John stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him against the mounting wind.

“John! Where’s your coat? You’re soaking!” Mrs. Hudson brushed right past Sherlock to hover at John’s side.

“Yes, sorry.” John wiped his feet on the mat by the door, but his clothes continued to drip sluggishly.

“Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson rounded on him. “What are you doing dragging him around in all weather? If you want to keep him fit, you’ll need to take better care of him.” Then, in a gentler tone, she said, “Just you wait here, John. I’ll fetch you a towel.”

“You needn’t-- ” John began, but she’d already bustled out toward the linen cupboard. John stole a glance at Sherlock, who was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“Why didn’t you bring your coat?” Sherlock asked. “You’ve got us both in trouble.”

“Sorry sir. I’m not exactly allowed to pop back to my room whenever I want, am I?”

“Why not?”

“Why--?” John paused. It sounded like a genuine question. “Because I’m busy running around after you.”

“You’re not _always_ with me. I occasionally send you on errands. And you do bathe, change clothes, and presumably other mundane things on your own. When my brother owned you, did you wait around for him to tell you when to eat and sleep?”

“No,” John said tightly. Mycroft also hadn’t led him on a fourteen hour chase in his first day of employ. Only John’s insistence that Sherlock eat something had brought them back to the house, then, and since then Sherlock hadn’t seemed to get any fonder of such boring things as sleeping.

“Here, love.” Mrs. Hudson reappeared with a fluffy towel the size of a kitchen table, and wrapped it around John’s shoulders. “Now next time, you tell Master Sherlock when you’ve got to stop for a bite or a cuppa or to put on some warm clothes. He needs a reminder that you’re not his old Mr. Froggie that he can drag around.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock hissed. His jaw was clenched, and he’d turned an unusual pinkish shade.

“Mr. Froggie?” John pulled his towel more tightly around him and smiled at Mrs. Hudson.

“He dragged that old thing everywhere. Ended up dissected all over the nursery floor, though, if I recall. In fact, I could tell you— “

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. He grabbed John’s arm and tugged him toward the opposite door. “Point taken. John, let’s get you a change of clothes.”

“I’ll bring you boys a tea tray.”

“Not necessary, Mrs. Hudson. Come _along_ , John.”

They strode together down the hallway together, with John fighting back a smile. “So, about Mr. Froggie—“

“Never speak of it again.”

They walked on in silence, but the smile never quite left John’s face.

They arrived at the security door that marked the boundaries of the wing that housed personal slaves. John reached for the keypad, but Sherlock caught his wrist. “Standard domestic security system, newest model. Not difficult to hack, not for me, at least, but ostentatious. A constant reminder. Why do they keep you locked away, do you suppose?”

“To keep us from mingling with the other slaves, perhaps?” John had no idea whether the barracks of the household’s other slaves had similar security, but he couldn’t imagine Mrs. Hudson being made to punch in and out of her room.

“Hm.” Sherlock pressed his thumb to the security panel.

“Access denied,” the computer chirped. John looked from the security pad to Sherlock—who didn’t seem surprised at this turn of events—and back again. For a moment the thought crossed his head that all the Masters might be banned from the slaves’ barracks, but he immediately dismissed the idea. It was far more likely that Mycroft had specifically denied Sherlock access. Considering their relationship, such a slight seemed almost inevitable.

“All sense of security is false,” Sherlock said. He pulled John’s hand up and pressed his thumb against the scanner.

“Access accepted. Watson, John.” The door slid open before them.

“Hm,” Sherlock said again. Without relinquishing his hold on John, he strode into the corridor. This part of the manor was all wood-panelled walls and old-fashioned low ceilings, belying the state-of-the-art security that guarded the wing.

John tried futilely not to drip on the parquet floor as he headed down the hall. Sherlock’s hold on his wrist tagged him to a halt.

“Allow me.” Sherlock stood silently surveying the corridor for so long a moment that John almost broke in to ask what, precisely, he was meant to be allowing. Then Sherlock let go of John’s hand and took off down the hallway.

John followed as fast as he could, but Sherlock still beat him to the door of John’s room: dark wood, with a security panel inset in the wall beside, identical to every other door in the wing.

“This one?” John asked.

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand once more and manhandled his thumb onto the scanner. The door popped open with a pleasant beep. Sherlock threw John a smug smile before shoving the door open and darting inside. John stepped in after him and closed the door to give himself room to stand in the claustrophobic confines of his quarters.

Sherlock had penetrated the room as far as possible, and now stood in the constricted space between the narrow bed and the small table where John’s laptop sat. His eyes scanned each corner of the room, clean and sparse though it was.

John suddenly wanted to avoid hearing the conclusions Sherlock would draw from his living space. Quickly, he asked, “How did you know which room was mine?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Sherlock continued to take stock of his surroundings.

“Not to me. Unless you looked it up somehow. I suppose you have access to those kinds of things.”

“Really, John. It wasn’t difficult to work out.” Sherlock whirled to face him, and though the effect of his twirling coat was somewhat diminished in the limited space, still he glowed with the light of a man in his element. “You’re in the same wing as the rest of the personal slaves; the concentrated smell of grooming products is almost overpowering, really. The acquirer always assigns new slaves to quarters near a head slave, so your room was likely to be next to Lestrade’s. It’s been rainy all day, as your dripping is clearly demonstrating. Since he and my brother took a stroll in the garden this morning after breakfast, Lestrade would have had to come back here to change his shoes before attending my brother at his afternoon audience. There are small clumps of mud along the hallway leading to the door next to this room. Now, on which side of Lestrade had your room been placed? The security panel on this door had smudging along the left side of the pad, where a left-handed person’s thumb would naturally land. All my brother’s personal slaves are right handed except for Sally Donovan, but Lestrade would have assigned her a room at the far end of the wing, where she and Anderson can discreetly carry out their liaisons, and he won’t be made to listen. This room had to be yours.”

“That’s… remarkable.”

“Well yes,” Sherlock said, with a dismissive flick of his wrist and an incongruous smile.

“Wait.” John’s mind scrolled through the deductions Sherlock had presented. “Sally… and Anderson?”

“Really, that arrangement must be painfully apparent to anyone who spends more than a few seconds in their presence. Why my brother doesn’t get rid of one or both of them I can’t fathom.”

“Right. Obvious.”

Sherlock sat on the bed and flipped open John’s laptop. “You had better towel off and get changed.”

John didn’t move, but rather stood watching Sherlock type passwords into the text field of his log-on screen. “Sir. That’s my laptop.”

“Is it?” Sherlock didn’t look at him. “As this room is _yours_ , I suppose. And the clothes on your back.”

John closed his eyes and made himself not bristle at the reminder. He’d learned this lesson before; how often would he need it repeated? He couldn’t stop watching, though, as Sherlock casually invaded his last vestige of privacy as if he had the right. Well after all, Sherlock possessed John and everything of John’s; he’d been a fool to think he could keep anything back, especially from this madman who saw evidence where others saw meaningless details.

In less than a minute, the laptop accepted what Sherlock had typed, pinged happily, and brought him to the desktop. Sherlock glanced over at John with a disapproving raise of his eyebrow. “Not exactly Fort Knox. Go on, then. I won’t be long.”

With a not inconsiderable effort, John turned from the sight of Sherlock merrily typing away on his laptop. He retrieved the towel from its hook inside the cupboard. He ran it roughly through his hair first to stem the worst of the dripping. When he glanced up, he found Sherlock tapping his finger absently against the keyboard as he glanced around the room.

There wasn’t much to see: the bed, made with military precision each morning, the cupboard with three changes of nondescript clothes that had been provided on his arrival, his discarded cane leaning against the wall, the half-full bookshelf, a set of hand weights he’d generously been allowed to aid in his physical therapy. And, luxury of luxuries, the laptop: strictly limited in its capabilities, of course, but good enough for creating a record of his activities, as mundane as they’d been until two days ago.

John saw Sherlock take it all in with a critical eye, and wanted to hide behind his towel. Though Sherlock had seen him naked, had been inside him, John had never felt this exposed in his presence. If John’s person could reveal to Sherlock so much information, then the pathetic contents of this room were sure to provide enough evidence to complete Sherlock’s knowledge of his life story.

John turned away from the sight of Sherlock’s scrutiny. He had no control over Sherlock’s actions, or his judgements. His only duty was to follow orders, and so he would. He stripped off his soaking wet shirt and vest and hung them over the cupboard door. He prised off his muddied shoes and socks. He dared not take anything down to the laundry. Sherlock might follow him, and John had no wish to be responsible for ruining the house slaves’ afternoon. He unbuckled his trousers, pulled out the belt, and let it thunk to the floor.

Behind him, he could hear Sherlock typing. What Sherlock might want to write on John’s machine remained a mystery.

John’s thigh spasmed painfully, and his knees took the opportunity to register their own protest of the day’s events. Fine then. No precarious balancing act while attempting to peel off the rest of his clothing. John lowered himself ungracefully to the chilly floor and proceeded to shimmy out of his trousers and pants with less than dignified contortions.

“Do keep the fuss to a minimum, John. I’m trying to read.”

“I’m so sorry my changing clothes in my own room is disturbing you, sir,” John said, but when he glanced over his shoulder, Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the laptop screen, and he showed no signs of having appreciated John’s sarcasm. John dragged a hand through his hair and decided he’d rather not speculate about what Sherlock was finding so fascinating. The laptop held plenty of information Sherlock could be reading: procedural manuals for the household, the day’s duty roster, a memo from Lestrade about entering notes promptly after completing service with a guest, and, buried in a subfolder inside a subfolder, as if it were naughty pictures, John’s daily entries about his life. No. No speculating.

John climbed to his feet and towelled himself off quickly. Though out of his wet clothes, he was still shivering. He wrapped the towel around his waist, but it hardly warmed him. A nice, thick jumper would feel like heaven just now, but he hadn’t been provided any. John didn’t expect the Holmses would find such a thing appropriate for their slaves. He reached out for one of his other outfits, but was interrupted by Sherlock’s bored voice.

“John, hand me my phone.”

“Where is it?”

“Jacket pocket.”

John marched over and shoved his hand into Sherlock’s pocket. He dug out the phone and slapped it into Sherlock’s outstretched palm. “Next thing you’ll want me to feed you grapes and fan you with palm fronds.”

“Not the right time of year to require fanning. Though while you’re here, my hair’s a bit dampish.”

John tugged the towel from around his waist and rubbed at Sherlock’s curls, somewhat rougher than was necessary. Sherlock typed something into his phone with remarkable speed for a man whose head was being manhandled by an angry slave. After a moment, Sherlock tugged the towel from John’s hands and tossed it to the floor. “Your bedside manner must be absolute rubbish.”

“If you were a patient, I’d be sure to show you due consideration, sir.” Eager to avoid any more pointless orders, John crossed the tiny room back toward the cupboard, and clean clothes.

“No.” Sherlock’s sharp voice stopped John after two steps. “If you want warmth, you’ll get it from me.”

John gaped at him, but Sherlock didn’t even bother to watch for a reaction. Whether that meant he’d already deduced John’s reaction, or that he didn’t care either way, John couldn’t fathom. “I’m not that cold,” he said, though he had to stop his teeth from chattering to say so.

“Suit yourself.”

John crossed his arms over his chest, but they were little protection against the draft that crept in from the room’s high window and danced over his naked skin. He glared at Sherlock, wrapped up in his coat and settled into John’s bed, leaning against the wall. John could picture it, as vividly as a desert mirage: climbing astride Sherlock’s lap. For a skinny man, Sherlock put off a surprising amount of body heat. Perhaps it was a side effect of his massive intellect. The outside of Sherlock’s coat was wet, leaving spreading damp marks on John’s bedclothes, but if he tucked his arms around Sherlock, on the inside of his coat, he’d be warm. He could rest his head against Sherlock’s scarf. Perhaps, if his master was distracted enough, he could even drift off to sleep like that while Sherlock read.

John closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Sherlock reclining comfortably on his bed. Sherlock couldn’t actually have expected John to quietly submit to his order; he’d surely deduced enough of John’s personality to predict that. Perhaps Sherlock enjoyed the idea of John standing here helpless, shivering out his pride, naked except for Sherlock’s collar. It seemed appropriate that he should hold John so exposed while he casually pawed through John’s written observations, the little scraps interpreting how he saw the world. If Sherlock were waiting for John to beg for anything from Sherlock—warmth, relief from his prying, _anything_ \--he would have a very long wait indeed.

John’s thigh clenched tight against a phantom pain. He knotted his hand into a fist and pressed it against his leg. Sherlock glanced up at the movement, and the quirk at the corner of his mouth might have been a smile. That decided John. He had no interest in waiting to see what fresh torture Sherlock would inflict. This room—this whole bloody estate— was just another type of battlefield, and John had grown accustomed to those.

John spent a moment breathing evenly to ensure his teeth wouldn’t chatter when he spoke. “Sir,” John said.

Sherlock glanced up again, and this time his brow furrowed. He heaved a disappointed sigh. “Yes, John.”

“May I please suck your cock?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, then narrowed quickly. “I said nothing about sex.”

“You seemed to enjoy my mouth well enough before.”

“You have some small skill,” Sherlock said with nonchalance that sounded just a bit too affected. “You have no hope of manipulating me, you realize. Your plans for diversion are childishly transparent.”

“Is that a no?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said, perhaps a shade too quickly. Then, “I’ll allow it if you can demonstrate your enthusiasm.”

“Demonstrate,” John said, drawing out the word as he tried to imagine what that might mean. “How?”

“Don’t touch me unless you’ve achieved arousal.” Sherlock raised one long finger and pointed it at John. “In fact, let’s make that a standing rule. You’ve already shown that you can make yourself enjoy your duties, so this shouldn’t be a hardship.”

John allowed himself a moment to seethe freely before pushing his anger away. Rage wouldn’t help him. Nor would standing here waiting for Sherlock to give him orders.

John conjured up the old fantasy: that Sherlock was his lover, his partner, his equal. John curled his hand around his cock and squeezed gently; it felt warm in his cold hand. Perhaps he and Sherlock stumbled in here together after a day’s worth of deductions: dripping from the rain, laughing, and high on the joy of their own cleverness. John stroked his loose fist up and down his length and recalled the triumph on Sherlock’s face as he’d laid out the clues that led to his deduction about the ambassador’s daughter. He could remember the answering thump of his heart against his ribcage as Sherlock took him through the chase. Sherlock had listened to John, had considered his theory, however inaccurate it proved to be. For all Sherlock was imperious and demanding, he didn’t actually object to John thinking for himself.

John circled his thumb around the head of his prick and glanced up at Sherlock, who seemed to be paying no attention whatsoever to John. That left John total freedom to observe. Sherlock really was an attractive man, if one ignored his caustic personality. His cheekbones and his pale eyes proclaimed his aristocratic heritage, but his pallor and thinness made him look otherworldly somehow, nearly ethereal. John watched Sherlock’s eyes dart across the laptop screen, reading. He could almost imagine that Sherlock was feigning the movement in an effort to seem like he wasn’t watching John touch himself. He was like that: stubborn.

Sherlock wouldn’t want John to know how much he enjoyed the sight of John sliding his hand languidly up and down his stiffening cock. Oh, Sherlock would want to watch—John knew Sherlock liked to catalogue every change John’s body went through, whether it came from beating him with a riding crop or fingering open his ass. There was no chance at all that John’s stroking himself to full erection was not on the list of things Sherlock would want to observe.

If Sherlock loved John, he’d want to see because he’d want to know how best to please John when it came his turn to touch. Maybe Sherlock was keeping up his charade of not watching to build up the anticipation and make John work for it. That thought sent the blood rushing southward. John deliberated for a moment before deciding he could put on a show enticing enough to challenge Sherlock’s bored detachment.

John ran his thumb roughly along the vein on the underside of his cock, which gave an interested twitch. John wondered if Sherlock ever touched himself this way or if—having always had a stable of personal slaves at his disposal—he’d never had the need. John twisted his hand around his shaft more tightly now—just the right amount of pressure. A small bead of fluid welled up from the tip of his cock. He used his thumb to spread it around the head, getting it nice and moist. When he tugged harder at the root of his cock, it sent sharp splinters of pleasure digging into his limbs like shrapnel, demanding his attention. A quiet grunt of satisfaction forced its way out of his throat.

Sherlock’s eyes strayed from the laptop screen to John’s face, then raked down his body to fix between John’s legs. “Hm.” His tone remained casual, but his gaze stayed fixed on John’s hand, as if the movement had hypnotized him.

“Have I satisfied your conditions, sir?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. “I suppose it’s only fair to grant your request.” Sherlock set the laptop aside on the table. He stood, shucked off his coat and scarf, and let them drop to the floor. “Though this urges of yours are terribly inconvenient. When I’m working, you must find other ways to gratify yourself.” He stopped in the midst of toeing off his shoes to deliver a delighted smile. “Perhaps some sort of vibrating toy with a remote control. That way I can help you regulate your cravings. Like a nicotine patch for your libido.” Sherlock pulled his belt out of its loops, considered it a moment, then let it fall. “I suppose I could let you suck on my fingers when we’re in public. Mycroft can hardly object to something so tame. Would you like that? Kneeling next to my chair at formal dinners, taking scraps from my hand? Such practices are not unheard of in our social circle.” He threw himself on the bed, leaned back against the headboard, retrieved the laptop, and settled it on his thighs. “Now, John, what was it you wanted?”

John’s mouth had gone dry listening to Sherlock’s suggestive threats. His cock was a warm weight in his hand. For a brief moment, John considered stopping this. He could deny that he’d asked for anything. He could say he’d changed his mind, that the urge had passed. Such a course wasn’t without risk, though. John couldn’t predict what Sherlock would do in response, but John doubted that any possibility would end in his pleasure. No, he’d stepped onto the battlefield; he wouldn’t retreat now. “I want to suck you,” he said. “I want your cock in my mouth. Sir.”

“Very well,” Sherlock sighed, and waved a magnanimous hand in John’s direction.

John climbed onto the bed and crawled up its length to slot himself into the narrow space between Sherlock’s lean form and the wall. He spread his left hand against the front of Sherlock’s trousers, where his erection left an obvious outline.

Sherlock had gone back to looking at the laptop screen, although John would bet even money that he was reading nothing. John pulled down the zip on Sherlock’s trousers and struggled with pulling those and Sherlock’s pants out of the way. After a moment Sherlock gave a petulant sigh, then lifted his skinny hips and held up the laptop. John manhandled Sherlock’s clothing down and off, letting it fall to the floor with the rest. Then he came to lie next to Sherlock.

John had always liked this moment in love-making: the giddy pause before a tumble into mutual pleasure. A hundred possibilities lay before him, waiting to be enacted on Sherlock’s body. Even if this was all a game to Sherlock, John could enjoy his part in it. He leaned in close and swiped his tongue teasingly here and there down the length of Sherlock’s stiff prick. The taste was already familiar to him: the smell that clung to Sherlock everywhere—simultaneously posh and chemical—seemed imprinted into his skin.

Now that John had some experience with what Sherlock enjoyed, he could take his time, maybe even tease Sherlock a bit. He’d enjoyed that with past lovers—holding back and torturing a partner with gentle touches until he had to hold John down and take what he wanted. Somehow, John doubted it would take much provocation to drive Sherlock to that point.

John wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock and sucked lazily. His collar brushed up against the bare skin of Sherlock’s thigh, tugging the leather against John’s throat. The memory of Sherlock’s fingers tugging at the collar as they kissed sent a pleasant tingle right to John’s balls. He hummed around his mouthful, but Sherlock took no notice. John didn’t have much room to work, what with Sherlock’s hand working the track pad, right beside his ear, still putting up his front of indifference.

John pulled off and dragged his cheek down against Sherlock’s length. “You know,” he said. “In uni I used to see a bloke who would whistle when I sucked him off. I knew I was doing a good job if he started to lose the tune.” John chuckled. “Once, I— ”

Sherlock clutched a handful of John’s hair and painfully wrenched his head to the side so he could look John in the eye. “Do not speak of that—any of that—again. You are mine now. You belong to me.”

John nodded as best he could under Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock pushed John’s head back down, and John opened his mouth obediently. At least Sherlock wasn’t pushing, but he did keep a firm grip on John’s head as he swallowed more of Sherlock’s prick.

“Your mouth, as pleasant as it can be at times, may yet get you into trouble,” Sherlock said.

John tried to pull back, to ask what exactly Sherlock might mean by that. Sherlock’s firm hand held him in place and began pushing him further down, forcing him to take Sherlock deeper.

“’Lord Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds,’” he read.

John’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as he realized what Sherlock had been reading: the observations he’d recorded in the past few days, since becoming Sherlock’s property.

“’What’s incredible, though,’” Sherlock continued, “’is how _spectacularly ignorant_ he is about some things.’”

Sherlock pushed John’s head down hard, and John gagged. He tried to repress the reflex and met with abject failure. The furious workings of his throat served only to goad Sherlock into holding on more tightly. He’d begun to choke when Sherlock finally pulled John up by the hair.

John gulped in air desperately. When he could speak again, he tried to defend himself. “Wait, sir. I didn’t mean that—“

Sherlock shoved John’s head down again. “Oh, you meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way.” He held John’s head down with his left hand, and with his right slammed the laptop closed and dumped it onto the table.

John gagged around Sherlock’s prick. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t swallow. He battled against the blind panic of not getting enough oxygen and concentrated on breathing through his nose whenever he could pull back enough to clear his airway. It wasn’t enough. He was going to choke.

“Tell me, John.” Sherlock sounded as calm and scornful as if he were delivering a particularly scathing insult to stranger. “In what area does my spectacular ignorance lie?”

John shoved back hard against Sherlock’s hand and simultaneously pushed against Sherlock’s thighs to break free of his grip. Sherlock let him go without a fight.

The wall slammed hard into John’s back, and he slumped against it. He dragged the back of his hand against his mouth, and against his eyes, which had started to water. Sherlock watched him impassively with arms crossed over his chest.

Once John had gotten enough air to spend some in words, he replied to Sherlock’s question with one of his own. “Do you want me to name just one?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John went on quickly. “For starters, you have very little idea of how to make someone enjoy getting off with you. And yeah, perhaps that’s not a relevant skill in your life, but I happen to know something about it. Those of us who aren’t Lords can’t count on someone coming to bed with us a second time unless we make it worth their while. I happen to actually enjoy giving people what they want in bed. And you might reap the benefits of that skill if you let me work instead of using my throat like a bloody inanimate object.”

Sherlock’s expression hadn’t changed, and for a moment John feared he might have made a mistake. Then Sherlock gave a sharp nod and said, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Sherlock settled himself back against the headboard and waited.

“Right.” John swallowed past the soreness of his throat. He hadn’t actually thought much past getting Sherlock to stop choking him, and so he didn’t have much of a strategy prepared. However, he reminded himself, he _was_ the only expert present.

With some careful manoeuvring, John knelt between Sherlock’s legs. The bed might have been hard, but kneeling here was miles more comfortable than kneeling on cobblestones in the cold garden. Without bothering to ask permission, John bent Sherlock’s legs and pushed them to the sides, framing his goal. He hooked his hands around Sherlock’s thighs and considered his plan of attack.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “Thus far your alleged expertise is not—Ah!”

John dove forward and swallowed down Sherlock’s long cock all the way to the root. With the angle and speed under his control like this, he could work past reflex to take much more. He dragged his tongue up the underside as he pulled off halfway, only to stop and suck vigorously.

Sherlock’s hands slammed down onto the bed. He fisted his hands in the duvet. Unlike last time, he kept his eyes open. John took a moment to admire the way his mouth looked, slightly open. Whatever smart reply Sherlock had been about to deliver had evaporated into the room’s heated atmosphere.

John was careful to look up at Sherlock, watching his reactions as John sunk back down, stretching his lips around the thicker base of Sherlock’s prick. He liked seeing small breaks in Sherlock’s careful facade; they reassured him that there was a man underneath the Lord.

John could see from the quick contractions of Sherlock’s belly that his breath was coming faster. When he grazed his bottom teeth ever so gently against Sherlock’s cock, his leg muscles clenched under John’s hands. John smiled as best he could with a mouth full of Sherlock and made a mental note: Sherlock might be a pampered member of the aristocracy, but he also enjoyed a little danger in his sex.

Relinquishing his hold on Sherlock’s thigh, John slid his hand under Sherlock’s prick to cup his balls. He pulled his mouth off Sherlock’s cock momentarily so he could drag his tongue over Sherlock’s lightly furred sac. Sherlock made no noise at all, but when John turned his attention to teasing licks around the head of Sherlock’s dick, Sherlock’s hands twisted in the covers.

This, then, was the part John loved: seeing his partner come apart under his hands. In John’s not insignificant experience, he’d never seen someone who looked as beautiful while falling apart as Lord Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had thrown his head back and seemed to be engaging in some sort of deep breathing exercise, blowing air out and gulping it in with his lips slightly parted. Sweat shone on his chest above the loosened buttons of his shirt. His damp hair tumbled against his face in an unruly tangle.

 _Brilliant_ , John thought. If no one had ever seen Sherlock in this state, that was a damn shame. Then again, if all Sherlock had experienced was indifferent fucks from slaves who belonged to other men, it was possible that no one had even made an attempt to get Sherlock to lose himself this way. For some reason, a hot anger rose in John’s gut when he thought of anyone else seeing Sherlock undone like this. He immediately resolved to set a standard Sherlock was unlikely to forget.

John leaned back on his heels, tucked his arms under Sherlock’s knees, and pulled, dragging him off the headboard and flat onto his back.

“What--?” Sherlock protested, but John had sunk Sherlock’s cock into his mouth again, which seemed to destroy Sherlock’s capacity for speech. Sherlock’s white-knuckled grip on the sheets, his quick breaths, and the way he spread his legs further apart when John swallowed him were all encouraging signs. John’s own cock twitched as he observed each marker of Sherlock’s arousal. If Sherlock were his lover, John would feel lucky to have attracted such a responsive man—someone who could appreciate his skills.

John wanted to see more—to see what else Sherlock could take. He set up an insistent rhythm, bobbing his head up and down on Sherlock’s prick, which was starting to leak salty pre-come into John’s mouth. He rolled Sherlock’s balls in his hand, then slipped one thumb lower to tease at the entrance to Sherlock’s ass.

A small, high-pitched noise erupted from Sherlock’s throat. His hips slammed forward, but this time John was prepared. He took Sherlock in to the hilt and swallowed down pulse after pulse of his come. When Sherlock went still, John pulled back a little way, but continued to suck gently until Sherlock raised a hand and weakly batted him away.

John wrapped his hand around his own straining prick. The sight of Sherlock laid out helpless before him, the scent of sex saturating the tiny room, the sound of Sherlock gulping in desperate breaths: all helped push John over the edge in a few strokes. He spent himself against Sherlock’s thigh, a lovely abstract in white and pale.

After dumping himself onto the narrow stretch of unoccupied bed, John rolled onto his side and watched as Sherlock’s breath evened out and the aftershocks stopped trembling through his muscles. With a promise to himself that being practical didn’t mean being slavish, John reached across Sherlock to fish his towel off the floor and clean them both up a bit. Sherlock’s eyes were still firmly closed. John couldn’t blame him; a quick nap didn’t sound unappealing in the least.

John reached down to the foot of the bed and unfolded the spare blanket. He was pulling it up over both of them when Sherlock caught his wrist. When John looked at him, Sherlock’s eyes were wide open.

“You must make it like that every time,” Sherlock said with utter sincerity.

“Must--? No. No, sir.” John shook his head in case the visual clue might get across to Sherlock what his words seemed to be failing to impart. “That was a demonstration. That’s what it can be like when someone wants you, freely wants you. You can’t _make_ someone love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened on his wrist. All trace of sleepy contentment had fled from his face, and something cold and a little desperate had taken its place. “I can make you do whatever I want.”

“Probably,” John agreed, and tried not to imagine how much further he might sink, if the past two days were any indication of his future trajectory. “But you can’t force me to feel something.”

“Oh, sentiment. Dull.” Sherlock flung his arm over his eyes and flopped back down on the bed.

“Of course, sir. Sorry to bore you.” John pulled the blanket up over them both.  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

 

_“She’s actually a very good surgeon,” Stamford said as he carefully taped down the dressing over the surgical scar at the base of John’s spine. “No complications when I got mine put in. And this looks to be healing nicely.”_

_“Right,” John grunted at the surface of the exam table._

_“You can sit up.” Stamford bustled over to the counter and began pouring out pills from a bottle. “You can’t even feel the chip, once the incision heals. Just like the ones they used to put in pets, but loads more sophisticated, of course. Here.” He held out a cup of water and another that contained two small yellow pills._

_John reached out to take what was offered to him, and downed the pills mechanically._

_“At least you know the regimen for pain pills. Is your shoulder doing well? Range of motion seems to be improving.”_

_“Yeah.” John could feel a dull ache almost everywhere in his body, though if he thought about it he could pick out brighter spots of pain: the cut in the small of his back, the biting cold of the metal collar around his neck, his shoulder, his leg, and the persistent, dreadful ache that had taken up residence in the deepest part of his chest._

_“How’s the pain in your leg?”_

_“Fine.”_

_“Yeah? Because the limp still seems pretty bad.”_

_“Mm hm,” John replied. The pills didn’t seem to be helping with any of those hurts, only making his mind fuzzy. He didn’t mind the fuzziness._

_“I don’t suppose you’ve been doing your rehab exercises.”_

_“I agree,” John said. Perhaps he could float away entirely, if he let himself. If he stopped trying to approach the situation like a soldier or a doctor, like someone who knew how to solve problems, he’d be better off. If he could just let things happen to him without trying to change them._

_“Chances are there’s nothing wrong with the leg at all and you’re an absolute nutter.”_

_“Right,” John said. In the Army, he’d become an expert at following orders, so why should this be so much more difficult?_

_“No, changed my mind. It’s gangrenous. We’re going to have to amputate.”_

_“Fine.” If he could swallow up his pride completely, shove it somewhere inside where it wouldn’t inconvenience him, perhaps this would all become easier. Fold it in there among the pain and the ache, perhaps._

_“That’s the ticket. Immediate amputation. No time for anaesthesia. In fact, I think I saw a dull butter knife in the slave’s mess earlier. Perhaps I’ll just use that.”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Watson!” Stamford grabbed him by the arms and shook him once, hard enough to send a spike of pain through his shoulder._

_John looked Stamford in the face, and realized he couldn’t remember how long the man had been here. He looked concerned. “What?” John said._

_“You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said.”_

_“Yes I have. You…” He stopped himself at Stamford’s sceptical look. He didn’t need to bow and scrape and pretend, not with Stamford. “No, I haven’t. Sorry. Sorry, Mike. I’m a bit…” He waved a hand that was meant to encompass the room and the compound beyond._

_“Of course. All of us are, at first.” Stamford let go of him and returned to putting things away in the cupboards. “Get through it now, though, before they transfer your contract to your new owner. You’ll need your wits about you when you’re in a Lord’s household.”_

_“How do you know I’ll be a Lord’s slave? They could sell me to an institution. Like you.”_

_“This place has already got a doctor,” Stamford said, but he threw a quick smile over his shoulder._

_“I’m sure they could find some place to get their money’s worth out of me. Have me patching up Imperial patrollers in Aberdeen.” He tried for a laugh, but it sounded too harsh. His trembling left hand caught his eyes. He tucked it into the pocket of his standard-issue slave uniform. “Well right, not in the shape I’m in now, I suppose.” Stamford had paused in his labour and was glancing over his shoulder at John. “What?”_

_“I’m not supposed to say,” Stamford whispered, as if there were a master in the room who might overhear._

_“What?”_

_“I’ve seen your contract transfer form,” Stamford muttered to the counter._

_“You know where I’m going?” John pushed off the exam table and limped toward Stamford. “Tell me.”_

_“They don’t like us to know.” Stamford snatched a bottle of pills from the shelf and began counting them into plastic cups on a tray. “Can make people anxious, they say. Or start us speculating about how to turn an assignment to our advantage. Or the depression sets in. Hope and uncertainty are very close cousins.” Each pair of pills made a quiet rustling sound as Stamford dropped them home, like the sound of the last breath leaving a dying man’s lungs. “For some it doesn’t seem real until there’s an actual human being’s name on your contract. When there is, to know there’s one person to serve as the Empress’s proxy, to have the power of life and death over you, it’s enough to drive a man mad. ”_

_“Mike.” John pulled the tray out of Stamford’s reach, which succeeded in attracting his attention. “Who’s bought me?”_

_“Funny thing, you being who you are—were. Being in that particular regiment, I mean.”_

_“Why?” John asked._

_“Lord Holmes,” Stamford blurted, rather louder than necessary. “That’s who you’re to go to.”_

_“Lord Holmes,” John repeated. “The Lord Holmes. Lord of Westminster and points north. Confidant to her majesty. Commander in Chief of the Second Imperial Regiment. The firstborn son of the Lion of Gibraltar. Lord Holmes.”_

_“Is there another?”_

_“I should think not,” John said, then amended, “Well, his brother.”_

_“Isn’t he mad?” Stamford muttered._

_“You tell me!”_

_“You’d know more about him than I do, seeing as it’s him you swore fealty to, presumably.” Stamford pulled his tray of pills back. “I mean, when you were a free man. Slaves don’t swear fealty. I mean, what would be the point? Your loyalty’s pretty much spoken for once you’ve got on a collar.”_

_“I suppose,” John said softly. It might not be so bad, then, if his loyalty were pledged to Lord Mycroft Holmes. After all, he’d already fought for the man in Afghanistan. He’d lived happily enough under his rule before that. Legally belonging to Lord Holmes might not be that much of a change._

_A knock jarred John out of his contemplation. Stamford called, “Come in,” immediately._

_A woman in a slave’s uniform and metal collar poked her head in the door. “Stamford, Master said to tell you we’ll have a new one coming in at quarter of, and you’re to be prepared.”_

_“Yes, thanks,” Stamford said._

_The girl gave a shallow nod and ducked out as quickly as she’d come._

_“Never dull here,” Stamford said. “Well, what else. They’ve got you some protocol manuals.” He pointed to a stack of volumes at the far end of the counter. “Might be useful in putting you on good footing with the other slaves where you’re going. It can go hard for everyone if one slave is rocking the boat.”_

_“Right,” John said. Other slaves. Many other slaves, in a household like Lord Holmes’s._

_“You’ll stay here in the infirmary for the time being. Wouldn’t want the incision to get infected.”_

_“No. Wouldn’t want that.” John couldn’t imagine that Lord Holmes owned many slaves with injuries like his. He’d have enough catching up to do without a fever slowing him down._

_“Listen.” Stamford looked around quickly, as if the slave who’d just popped in might have hidden herself behind the exam table or the scale. “I couldn’t save everything of yours, but I salvaged a couple things.” From a high cupboard, he produced John’s medical kit. “They’re notorious cheapskates here. If we were going to have to treat you, they’d rather use supplies you provided. They did make me get rid of the morphine, though. Sorry.”_

_“It doesn’t matter. Thank you, Mike.” John took the kit. From its weight, he could tell the extra compartment still held its secret. “Thanks for that.”_

_“I saved the cane, too,” Stamford said. “It’s better not to give it to you until one of them says, but I doubt they’ll want you looking poorly when Lord Holmes’s acquirer comes to collect you next week. The sounder you seem, the more they can demand for your contract.”_

_“I suppose next they’ll feed me a nice meal and shove an apple in my mouth,” John said sourly._

_“Well, then at least you’d’ve had a nice meal.”_

_A genuine chuckle surprised John by making an appearance. “That’s a very optimistic point of view you’ve got.”_

_“It stands me in good stead, in this place.”_

_“I suppose it would.” John limped back to the exam table and leaned heavily against it. Pain thrummed through him, warring with the numbness the medicine in his blood was valiantly trying to impart. Stamford wouldn’t be there to crack jokes in the Holmes household. John would be a crippled nobody among slaves who had been rigorously trained to serve the highest echelons of Imperial Society. “I don’t suppose Lord Holmes goes in much for humour.”_

_“It’s only thirty years, John. Remember that. They own your contract, not your whole life.”_

_“How many slaves outlive their contract?”_

_“I might. You might, if you start taking better care of yourself. I’ve heard from some Afghani terrorists that you’re a difficult man to kill.” Stamford picked up his tray of pills and gave him a weak smile, one that John felt compelled to return. “I wish you luck. I really do.”_

_“Thanks. That’s kind.” John made sure to savour that kindness. It might be the last he’d receive for a long while._

\--

John woke immediately at the sound of a loud bang. He was reaching to his non-existent belt for a gun before he realized the bed he lay in was too soft for an Army cot. Not Afghanistan. But a war zone all the same. Sherlock, wearing pants and his unbuttoned shirt, stood in semi-darkness at the far end of the room, pulling clothes from their hangers in John’s cupboard and tossing them on the floor behind him. John watched for a moment, until it became evident that Sherlock had no intention of slowing down.

“Sherlock,” John said. “What are you doing?”

“Studying the materials possessions of slaves. Did Mycroft supply these clothes for you?” Sherlock tossed a shirt over his shoulder onto the floor.

John propped himself up against the headboard. At least there wasn’t much in the room that Sherlock could break. “I doubt he picked them out personally, but yes, he—“

“They don’t suit you at all.” Sherlock moved to the small bookshelf set into the wall beside the table. “Manuals on slave protocol. Really, I’d have predicted a trash novel or two, perhaps a medical text.”

“Plain old boring John.” John struggled to free himself from the tangled covers as Sherlock swept the books off the shelf. Though Sherlock might not be able to break much, he was more than capable of finding things John would rather keep hidden.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Sherlock, can’t you leave—“

“Stay down,” Sherlock ordered in a sharper voice than any John had yet heard from him.

John froze with one foot on the cold floor as Sherlock yanked open the top drawer. He pawed right past John’s underthings, pulled out John’s portable medical kit, and held it in both hands. “The weight is off.”

“They confiscated all the exciting drugs.” John tried again to stand, but when he got to his feet, Sherlock turned and shoved him back with a palm against his chest. John tripped back onto the bed and tensed to move as his mind raced through the possibility of pulling the kit out of Sherlock’s hands.

“Don’t, John,” Sherlock said without looking at him. He flipped open the lid and upended the kit into the drawer. The contents rattled out, very loud in the ringing silence of John’s brain. Sherlock righted the empty kit and slid one deft finger against the hidden catch on the right inside. It was the work of a minute to unwrap the hidden gun from its cloth covering and shove in the clip, and then Sherlock held in his hand John’s Army-issue Sig. He shifted his grip deftly and swung his arm around to point the muzzle at John. “You, Dr. Watson, are full of surprises.”

John kept breathing. He could still fix this. If he could get the gun out of Sherlock’s hand, he could—well, not hide it again. Something. “You shouldn’t point a gun unless you know— “

Sherlock pulled back the safety with an easy motion, as if he were used to handling guns. It struck John, then, how very little he knew about Lord Sherlock and his work. “I knew there must have been something, but to be truthful, I was expecting a knife,” Sherlock said. “This is far more interesting.”

“Glad I could entertain,” John said. He was aiming for levity, but thought some of his terror might have crept in instead.

“How did you even bring your service weapon all this way?” Sherlock rotated his wrist to the side to get a better look at the gun. His finger remained firmly on the trigger. “Surely there are security measures.”

“I wasn’t searched when I arrived here. Before that, just lucky,” John said. He needn’t mention Stamford’s role as unwitting accomplice.

“Mycroft’s got complacent in his dotage.” Sherlock hefted the gun and pointed it again at John. “But you. You’ve had this here, within your easy reach, for weeks. Haven’t you wanted to shoot someone, even once, in all that time?”

“I’m not a murderer,” John said. He _had_ held the med kit, with its secret cargo in his hands once, the week after he’d arrived, and asked himself how pathetic, exactly, his life would become before he’d be tempted to use the gun.

“Ah, but you are a killer.” Sherlock swung himself onto the bed, neatly straddling John’s chest. He prodded the gun against John’s cheek.

“That’s—that’s loaded,” John said, moving as little as possible.

“I know. I know exactly what I’m doing with you,” Sherlock assured him with an affronted air. “I’m not careless with your life, John. Do you know why?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“I own you. It’s as if you’re a tool or a weapon. Just as I keep my microscope in good working order, I intend to keep you in form, so that you’re ready for me to use when I feel the urge.” Sherlock traced the gun down the side of John’s jaw to nudge against his collar. “And if I want to alter you, I will do so.”

John studied Sherlock’s face, looking for any clue that Sherlock felt something beyond selfish possessiveness. “I am an actual human being. Just so I know, does that matter to you?”

“I have very little use for most human beings, so appealing to me to treat you as one will have little effect.”

“I’m still not afraid of you,” John said. He lifted one steady hand from the headboard and brushed a hanging curl out of Sherlock’s face. “Concerned about your lack of firearm safety, perhaps, but not afraid.”

“You don’t believe I would shoot you?”

“Well.” John considered. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Sherlock was capable of shooting a man in cold blood. Why, then, could he not muster the appropriate terror for being held at gunpoint? “I’ve been shot before.”

Sherlock prodded the muzzle of the gun against the twisted, pink scar tissue of John’s shoulder. Then he put the gun’s safety back on and set it aside so he could press his fingertips to the skin there. “The exit wound isn’t as bad. The bullet must have left pieces behind. They had to dig them out of you. Probably in some ghastly field hospital. Sand everywhere. Surgeon in a hurry. They thought you might die. Do you remember?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.” John turned his head firmly to the side to stare at the wall.

“I’m ordering you to do so.”

“You don’t own my past.”

“I own all of you.”

“You own a contract that entitles you to my labour for a period of time.”

Sherlock drew back sharply, as if John had struck him. “That’s all you plan to permit me? Your _labour_?”

“That’s all you purchased from Lord Mycroft. That’s all the Empire demanded of me in exchange for my family’s debt.”

Sherlock shook his head fiercely. “I want more.”

“I am not going to hand over my entire being at your command.” John shoved at Sherlock, but couldn’t unseat him. “I am not,” he said again, and swallowed down his panic. “If that’s what you wanted, you should have chosen someone else.”

“Stubborn,” Sherlock snarled. Then he tilted his head to a strange angle, as if listening to something very far away. “But you might hand over your entire being under other circumstances?”

“Right,” John snapped. The glittering triumph in Sherlock’s eyes unnerved him. “Get off,” he demanded. “You’re heavy.”

Sherlock rolled to the side. He arranged himself on his back, pressing all along John’s side. John lay next to him, wondering what exactly had happened. Eventually, the weight of the gun on the table pulled his attention.

“What will you do with the gun?” John asked.

“You may keep it here,” Sherlock said with a lazy wave of his hand. “The ammunition will be kept in my chambers. I’ll arm you when I see fit.”

John’s eyes slid to the gun. He could almost feel it, warm in his hand. He might hold it again, actually _wield_ it again. Any other master would have had John flogged for hiding such a thing. Sherlock Holmes merely found it _interesting_. A giggle bubbled up from his throat, but morphed into a strangled grunt on the way out of his mouth. He must remember that he was only entertainment to this master of his, and that it was a mistake to assign sentimentality to self-serving, practical gestures. Still, he turned to butt his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and mutter, “Thank you.”

“Yes.” Sherlock held still for a long moment, then shoved John inexorably until he had to stand or face tumbling off the bed. “Now put on some clothes. We’ve work to do. The Chinese ambassador won’t implicate himself.”  
\--

_  
“It’s not much, but it’s private.” The acquirer set down John’s small bag of belongings inside the door. “Lord Mycroft believes in treating his slaves like human beings instead of cattle.”_

_“How progressive of him,” John said, but he had to admit this room looked decadent after the cold austerity of the slave barracks at the processing centre._

_“Is it important to you that an owner be progressive?”_

_John just stared at her. Since she’d picked him up at the processing facility, she’d seemed to answer each one of John’s statements with a question. John was starting to hate the feeling of being psychoanalysed, so he changed the subject. “What are my duties?”_

_“You’re to spend the day settling in. Tomorrow the housekeeper will give you a tour and explain the basic house rules.”_

_John took a slow circuit of the room, which he finished in five paces, leaning heavily on his cane. “Is that a computer?”_

_The acquirer smiled at him as if he’d said something particularly clever. “Yes. Very basic functions only, but there’s an intranet where you can access the daily schedule, duty roster, and so on. Another slave in this wing helps maintain the system. I’ll get Jim to give you an orientation to the set-up.”_

_“It’s a very nice cage.” John sat on the neatly-made bed, which was the only place in the room to sit, and flipped open the laptop. A word processor displayed the word “journal” in large letters across the top of the screen. Below it, a cursor blinked in a ceaseless rhythm._

_“Oh yes,” the acquirer said. “And another thing.” She sat gingerly on the bed a comfortable distance away from John, and checked something on the clipboard she carried. “You’re a soldier. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to life as a slave. Writing down everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”_

_John watched the cursor on the screen blink relentlessly several more times before glancing over at the politely attentive face of the acquirer. “Nothing ever happens to me.”  
_


End file.
